Mycroft shifted in his chair, so that he could look better at his brother. "Tell me what happened, from the start."
Earlier that day:
Yawning, Sherlock opened his eyes and stared ceiling in his darkened bedroom. Wow, he felt hungry. When was the last time he had dinner? Must have been last night. No, not last night. He hadn't eaten yesternight, John did, they had gone to the Chinese yesterday. No, it must have been two days ago. How can he possibly be hungry then?
He swung his legs over the edge of his bed, and that was when he felt something was wrong. Very wrong.
When his feet hit the floor, and he stood up, he noticed the floor was closer. Or he was lower now. Both things not really comforting. And he was hungry. Really hungry.
"John!" Sherlock yelled, his eyes darting around the room, his voice sounding strange in his own ears. John's room, his brain noticed. He felt nauseous, already beginning to understand what was going on. When John came up the stairs, his eyes widened. Sherlock coughed. "Not good."
"Bit not good, no," John agreed, staring at his friend. "Sherlock?"
"Mm?"
"Tell me how this happened?"
Sherlock shrugged. John grew visibly irritated. He pointed towards his hair. "Look, Sherlock. Dark curls," and pointing towards his legs he said, "I'm much longer, much thinier. I'm dying for cigarets somehow, and you bloody look like me!"
Sherlock sighed. "Somehow we swopped bodies."
John grimaced. "That's a great deduction, Sherlock. HOW?"
"Must have been the fortune cookies from last night. Now shut up, I need food!" Wow, that was something he never thought he would say... With firm leaps he jumped down the stairs past John, layed the table, toasted bread and at last, he could eat. John stood on the threshold, his arms folded across his chest. Sherlock looked up. "You've had dinner last night! How can you- I be hungry like this?"
John angrily said: "You're supposed to have quit smoking, yet I really want a cigaret. How's that possible?"
"No, seriously! How can I be hungry?"
"You weren't eating anything. I always eat less when we go out together, because otherwise I look like a hungry dragon," John admitted, exhaling deeply.
Sherlock frowned, while taking a bit of his toast. "That's stupid. Why would you do that?"
"Compared to you, I always devour huge amounts of food and I just want to avoid all the looks. But why do you still smoke? I hid all the packets. Where did I hid them…" his eyes searched the living room.
Sherlock pouted and drank his coffee after he had finished breakfast.
"Sherlock, this is ridiculous. This just doesn't happen, not in real life." John looked at Sherlock.
"Sounds dull."
John's eyes, well, Sherlock's eyes, turned a shade darker. Sherlock leaned backwards and scanned John from head to toe. "I do look rather good, don't I? I do have remarkable cheekbones, and aren't my black curls amazing?" he asked John, who tried to remain calm.
"Yes, Sherlock: you are the sex-god."
When John obviously was angry, Sherlock sighed and walked to his bedroom, fishing his favourite blue dressinggown from his drawer. When he put it on, he noticed it didn't fit. Angrily he threw it on the bed.
"I look ridiculous. Absurd," Sherlock said angrily.
"Thanks Sherlock!" John shouted back from the kitchen. Sarcasm.
A surprised look appeared on Sherlock's face. "What are you doing in the kitchen?" he asked, while walking back. John was standing on a chair, searching behind the mugs in the cupboard.
"Ah!" he exclaimed excultantly, holding up a small packet of cigarets.
"No, John!" Sherlock warned his friend.
"Sod this, Sherlock. I can't think properly. Shut up." And without a second thought, he lighted the cigaret and inhaled the smoke delightedly.
"Fine," Sherlock muttered angrily, turning away from his smoking friend. "There they go, all my days of effortfull cold turkey. Woosh, down the drain."
He threw himself on the sofa, closing his eyes, and he tried to think. His thinking process, however, was disturbed by the doorbell. Seconds later, Lestrade stood in the middle of 221B's living room